


de désir et de rage

by Farandole



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cooking, Dancing, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Post-Season/Series 02, a lot of French too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:42:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27689119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farandole/pseuds/Farandole
Summary: “Where to?”“Dancing.”And just like that, it’s only the two of them left.So off they go.Alternatively, Frenchie, Kimiko, and the moments in between. Post season 2.
Relationships: The Female | Kimiko Miyashiro & The Frenchman, The Female | Kimiko Miyashiro/The Frenchman
Comments: 30
Kudos: 89





	de désir et de rage

**Author's Note:**

> Bonjour! Thanks for clicking on this fic!
> 
> I seem to have a thing for broken and dangerous individuals becoming soft only for one another. Plus it's great to finally have some mostly accurate French rep on international TV shows (shout-out to Frenchie's Les Bleus rugby jacket and to Tomer's hard work on that accent).
> 
> I felt like I had to write what I think will happen next - so excited to see how they will have undeniably gotten closer by the beginning of season 3.
> 
> This is unashamedly fluffy because they deserve all the love and happiness in the world, dammit.
> 
> I included all French to English translations in the end's note, even the most obvious words in case some people have no prior knowledge of French.
> 
> Rated M for language and situations but nothing too explicit.
> 
> Thanks to my friend Dou for helping with her vast knowledge of old classic French songs, a subject that I clearly should know more about.
> 
> English isn't my first language, evidently, so apologies for any mistakes that remain.
> 
> Title is from the song Eden by Julien Doré – I think the lyrics fit them really well.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Where to?"

"Dancing."

And just like that, it's only the two of them left.

MM is finally back with his family, dollhouse and penguin plush in tow. He texts them from a burner phone - old habits die hard - to say he's fine and well and teaching his kid baseball. Monique's still making him sleep on the sofa though.

Hughie has decided to go back to an honest life, working officially for Congresswoman Neuman to take down Vought properly, legally. He tells them he's done with The Boys for a while, that the fugitive life is not made for an anxious guy such as himself.

Frenchie kisses him on the cheek and wishes him _bon courage_.

Butcher needs time - they all know that. To process the fight, Ryan, _Becca_. Grieve properly for his wife this time, now finally no longer plagued by the uncertainty of what happened to her.

He leaves without a note or any means to reach him. They don't expect him to anyway.

For a minute, Kimiko worries Frenchie is going to take off as well. 

That he's going back to Chérie _(Pumpkin)_ , her blue eyes and endless legs, to his drug and gun running underground business and his old criminal ways.

(He said he would leave her alone, after all.

She had no way to tell him that it was the last thing she ever wanted.)

But then he asks her to pack all her belongings - including her origami, which makes her smile - and she sighs in relief. They're never setting foot in the wretched Flatbush basement ever again.

Everything fits into a small backpack. A couple months ago, she only had the ridiculous pyjamas she wore to her name. Not even shoes.

These days, there's at least a couple clothes she can shove in her bag, along with Frenchie's yellow vest - now hers - a brush and several bottles of nail polish.

It’s the first time in a very long while that she’s had actual possessions, tying her to reality and a proper existence. Along with people who care for her.

He holds his hand to her and twirls her out of the tiny and derelict space that she slept in for the past months, away from the dark and damp place and into the light of the day.

And off they go.

______________

Chérie takes one look at them, raises an eyebrow, and promptly understands the situation.

“You’re going dark for a while, aren’t you?” she says, motioning for Frenchie and Kimiko to enter her apartment.

“We’ve been cleared by the FBI, but I want to lay low for a little longer,” answers Frenchie, moving with familiarity around the space. “I don’t feel like _jouer au chat et à la souris_ with the caped psychopath, you know? And you should stay quiet too, Chérie, just in case.”

He pulls bags from hidden places, grabs some strange looking tools from above a wardrobe.

“Nice of you to worry,” Chérie snarks, crossing her arms over the silk robe she’s wearing. 

Standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, Kimiko catches herself thinking she would like to be this feminine and put together too.

Not scrubbing blood out of her ruined fingernails.

There will be time now, at least.

Bitterness drips from Chérie’s words. “So you two are running away together to - what, live out your _special_ little romance around the world, settle in a white picket fenced house, adopt a dog and forget about all the shit you did? ”

Kimiko blushes and looks away, focusing instead on the weird collection of items on the shelves occupying the nearest wall. 

Chérie continues, pointedly glaring at him. “So, this is it, uh? I’m not to expect late night visits from you anymore? Or any visit at all?”

Frenchie pauses amid his frantic scavenging and turns to Chérie.

“You know you’ll always be my family. My Blanche.”

She scoffs.

“Never hesitate to call if you need anything. _Mais_ … As you’ve guessed, I am not coming back for some _galipettes_ under the sheets, yes,” he says uncomfortably, scratching his head.

His eyes turn to his new partner and his entire expression softens. Absentmindedly, Kimiko is observing two porcelain figures of cats playing, entirely unaware of the conversation going around her.

Chérie knows this to be true - hell, she’s known this for a while now. Serge’s life changed the moment he freed this feral woman from her cage. So did his heart. She can see it plainly on his face.

Frenchie pulls out a wad of cash from a gym bag and hands it to her “For a rainy day, _oui_? Always keep it nearby.”

Wordlessly, she takes the cash and sets it on the table behind her. She’s not gonna turn down money - besides, she knows exactly how much there is stashed in there.

Frenchie gathers all his belongings and passes a couple bags to Kimiko.

“This is not goodbye forever, I promise. I’ll reach out once we’re settled and it’s safer,” he says softly, moving forward to give Chérie a kiss on the cheek before opening the door.

Kimiko starts to follow him before she hears Chérie calling for her.

“Hey Kitten!”

She turns around to face the other woman hesitantly.

“You take care of him, alright?” Chérie asks with a sad look in her eyes.

Kimiko nods fiercely, grabs the bags and exits the apartment.

______________

“What’s the next step?” she signs to him.

“Well, we can pick up a car - somewhere discreet, paying cash, untraceable - and then drive off. Anywhere you want,” he answers her, his smile mirroring hers.

She’s about to make the gesture for _let’s go_ , when she feels his hand pausing on her forearm, stopping her in her tracks.

“I have to ask, Kimiko…” Frenchie hesitates.

She raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“Well, you’re free now. You can do whatever you want. And if that includes going off on your own path… alone… I will not ask you to stay,” he falters, unable to look into her eyes.

She’s not about to let the opportunity go by once more. 

This time, she can tell him exactly what she wants. So she takes a deep breath, makes sure she’s got his attention, and signs.

_I don’t want you to leave me alone. I never have. You’re all I have, and I want to stay with you._

As understanding blooms on his features, she slides her hands in his, intertwining their fingers and slowly caressing his skin, hoping to convey all the tenderness he evokes in her.

“Understood, _mon cœur_. Now where do you want to go?”

______________

From the moment she opens up to teaching him her language, Frenchie becomes an avid learner. That first night, following their rooftop surveillance and the head exploding incident, they spend many hours learning to communicate, twisting fingers, repeating gestures, and finding associated words.

The second word she teaches him after gun is “sorry”. She makes the gesture by putting her hand on his chest, laying flat over his heart, her other hand on her own heart, and feels him shuddering.

They lock eyes, and he settles his hand over hers. He’s sorry too.

In the early morning light, bleary eyed but satisfied with the progress they made, and while she’s sure he can understand a simple sentence, she finally asks something she’s always wondered.

She forms an interrogation point with her hand, mimes speaking, points at him and then at herself.

_What you call me, what does it mean?_

It takes Frenchie several minutes of retracing her signing to understand her point, and then the corners of his mouth turn upwards.

“You want to know about mon cœur, is that it?”

She nods.

“In French, it means my heart.”

His answer leaves her reeling.

“From the start?” she signs, stunned.

“When I first saw you, I just knew.”

She forms a heart with both hands, and then points at him.

_I’m gonna call you that in my language too._

______________

She wakes up to a gentle shake on her shoulder.

"Kimiko, we've arrived."

She had fallen asleep in the passenger seat of their new battered Jeep, lulled by the sound of the motor and Frenchie's slight whistling, feeling safe and content.

The first thing she notices despite the darkness of the late hour is the smells and sounds of nature. They appear to be in a clearing, surrounded by tall trees and bushes. A two-story cabin stands on the side invitingly. 

She can hear owls hooting, birds flapping their wings, small nocturnal mammals running around, and the lapping of waves nearby.

No cars, no sirens, no screaming people - just them, and nature.

She tries to take it all in, eyes filled with wonder, as Frenchie unloads the car and brings their bags to the cabin's entrance.

"What is this place? Is this for us?" She signs to him as he makes his way back to her.

He winks "I have my ways. Some people owe me favours."

Before setting foot in the cabin, he holds out his hand to her and leads her behind the house, to a deck overlooking a fairly large lake, waves glinting in the moonlight.

"You and I grew up by the water. I know this is not the sea, but I thought you would still enjoy it. You deserve some time away from New York."

She can't find words strong enough to express the multitude of emotions rising inside her, so she settles for sliding her hands around his shoulders and hugging him tight. She feels him relaxing and nuzzling his face around the side of her neck, holding her closer.

" _Tout ce que je fais, c'est pour toi, mon cœur_ ," he whispers.

She doesn't need a translation for that one.

______________

As spacious and cosy as the cabin is, it only has a single bedroom, complete with an ensuite bathroom.

Frenchie won't even listen to her propositions and settles his bag near the couch.

"Look, it turns into a bed too! I'll be fine, mon cœur, you take the bedroom."

She can’t manage to fall asleep the first night.

She's gotten used to hearing the ceiling drip near her cot in the basement, the TV playing on low in the other room or Frenchie's music rhythming her evenings.

Here there's only quiet and the occasional hoot from the trees. It's too silent.

Despite the plush bed and silky sheets, she cannot manage to stop the onslaught of memories replaying in her head.

The Shining Light Liberation Army, her brother, Stormfront, the Albanians, compound-v.

All the blood.

Serge.

His smile, his accent, his cooking. How he so readily accepted her from the moment they met and how he threw everything away to save her.

No one had ever done that for her.

Making a quick decision, she quietly tiptoes out of the room, his shirt brushing her thighs, too big on her small frame.

He stands up from the moment he hears her walking through the door.

"You can't sleep either, yes?"

Wordlessly, she grabs his hand and drags him back to the bedroom, feeling his confusion.

With one flick of her head, she invites him to sit on the duvet.

"We will sleep better together," she signs, standing in front of him. "Just sleeping."

"Are you sure? I can stay on the couch," he asks, swallowing nervously.

"The bed is big enough. I want you next to me," she answers while settling on the mattress by his side.

Everything is stilted at first.

They lay side by side, awkwardly self-conscious, putting as much distance between them as possible. 

Still, as she guessed, she feels safer and more relaxed hearing his choppy breathing next to her, knowing he's within reach. 

The last conscious thing she does before closing her eyes is to slide her hand in his.

______________

They wake up fully entangled into one another, her body curled up on top of his, face nuzzled in the crook of his neck, legs intertwined, his arms circling her waist, holding onto each other so closely - incapable of saying where one ends and the other begins.

After that, every night and every morning unfold the same way - separated at first, and then fusing in slumber.

They don't talk about it.

______________

Two weeks in, as they start their usual going to bed routine, she waits for him to lay down under the sheets and just dives into his arms directly, taking him aback.

Frenchie understands this is her way of telling him that there's no point in pretending anymore. They're going to end up like this anyway.

Stroking her lower back, he drops a kiss on top of her head as she settles against his chest comfortably.

" _Bonne nuit_ , mon cœur."

______________

They fall into a domestic routine, acclimating to their new location and way of life, free of crime and expectations.

Not everything goes smoothly.

After a disastrous experience, he takes to going grocery shopping on his own. 

She can’t deal with the amount of people, noise, and bright lights. Everyone is constantly brushing against her, jostling her body without a care, entirely unbothered by the lethal glare Kimiko is throwing their way while Frenchie holds her back from pouncing.

She doesn’t like to be touched by anyone other than him. 

One trip to the store leaves her oscillating between a panic attack and a murderous rampage, and so they decide he’s going to do it alone while she stays in their little peaceful haven of nature.

As a gesture of affection and support, he brings her back a small bottle of nail polish, along with a file and some nail polish remover - she likes to change often, after all. 

The bottle is forest green, like the trees surrounding the cabin.

Her smile is so wide, so blinding, that he can’t help himself but buy her a new colour every time he goes to the store.

Seeing all the bottles aligned in a rainbow on the bedroom shelf brings her so much joy.

______________

They hike a lot in the area surrounding the cabin. Deep in nature, the quiet only broken by the crunch of their steps and the occasional rustling of the wind through the leaves, Kimiko feels more at peace than ever.

The cold and crisp air in the early October mornings feels invigorating. She can’t get enough of discovering new plants, encountering various animals, and feeling her muscles ache at the end of the day - she wishes her healing wasn’t so quick to take it away.

“And that’s an _écureuil_ , right, a squirrel, running from us here. I think it is so funny when Americans try to say _écureuil_ , but also us French have problems saying squirrels. _C’est de bonne guerre_.”

Frenchie likes to point at everything they see - animals, plants, landscape - and tell her the French translation of the word. In return, she shows him the sign for it - and if it doesn’t exist, they make one up together.

The squirrel sign is just two fingers from the right hand running on the palm of the left hand - a reminder from her first encounter with one, forever linked to him as well.

Here, deep in the woods, making new memories along with the person she cares for the most, she can begin to move on from the years she spent caged up - and finally feel free.

______________

“The key to making perfect _crêpes_ is to let them rest under a rag for an hour, _oui_? They need a little snooze to be ready for the big splash in the pan."

Frenchie is an incredible cook, teaching her many of his favourite meals (" _mijotés avec amour_ "), from a simple _croque-monsieur_ to a traditional _bouillabaisse Marseillaise_ , to elaborately making homemade _pains au chocolat_ \- a tedious and incredibly long process involving pressing massive chunks of butter into the dough and folding it so many times, but entirely worth it for that first bite of warm chocolate and flaky buttery pastry alone.

He revels in spending time in the kitchen, juggling between plates, mastering pans and pots and preparing various dishes for both of them every day. She feels like she's almost intruding in the process, but he holds out his hand to her - always, from the first time in a dingy tech shop while she hid under the table, to offering to take her dancing, forever ushering her along into a better life by his side - and she understands he wants her along for the ride.

So she puts on the apron he bought for her - a ridiculous matching his&hers set he found in the homeware section - and gets ready to flip her first crêpe.

"A flip of the wrist, and look, they jump in the air, and you catch them, and _voilà_! It cooks on the other side too, but with class!"

Cooking and baking are made so fun together. Even if the first crêpe ends up on the floor, he teaches her that it's okay to mess up. Not everything comes out perfect the first time.

(She thinks of their first almost kiss and nods with determination. She wants a do-over. Soon.)

She catches the second one expertly with the pan.

"Look at you, my perfect little sous-chef! Now what do you want for garnishing: sugar, jam, or chocolate?"

She spreads the strawberry jam on the crêpe and folds it several times in quarters just like he showed her. 

He settles for chocolate ("just like my _maman_ would make me for the _goûter_ when I was a boy"). She wipes a bit of the hazelnut spread from the corner of his mouth and he gives her the most wonderful smile.

The crêpe is exquisite.

"Next time I'll show you how to make a crêpe Suzette: we will set it on fire, you will love it, mon cœur."

______________

Most afternoons, they either lounge in the sun up on the deck, facing the lake, or watch movies snuggling on the sofa, depending on the weather.

Kimiko discovers a new passion for old classics - spending hours glued to the tv, fascinated by those black and white movies of elegant people falling in love. 

But her favourites are musicals. She watches, mesmerized, as people incorporate singing and dancing into a regular story and wishes that she, too, could wear a flowy dress and twirl into Frenchie’s arms.

She’s seen West Side Story four times. When she’s alone, painting her nails or cleaning the cabin, she starts humming the songs quietly. On her own, discreetly, the broom becomes her dancing partner; she spins around it to the tune of the music, taking a few steps on each side, trying to recreate the beautiful choreographies.

She always misses the looks of utter fondness Frenchie sends her way from the other room.

That night, he switches off the TV and holds his hand to her. She expects him to drag her to the bedroom to start getting ready to sleep. Instead, he whispers.

“ _Danse avec moi_.”

His right hand finds the small of her back while his left hand intertwines with hers, holding them closely against his chest. She slides her other arm around his waist and raises her head to throw a questioning look his way.

She’s left unsettled by the intensity of his stare.

She can’t look away.

There’s no music, and yet they sway slowly together on the spot, right there in the middle of the cabin’s low-lit living room.

Time has no meaning anymore - they could have spent hours, days, holding each other and dancing to the silence.

She closes her eyes and leans her forehead against his, raising on her toes a little to compensate for their height difference, hoping he can understand how much she’s feeling in that moment.

“This is lovely. Thank you,” she signs, reluctantly parting from his arms.

“I promised you dancing, _non_?” he softly whispers, not wanting to disrupt the quiet atmosphere they’ve created.

She kisses him on the cheek.

______________

Some nights, she dreams of a version of reality where they would be two normal people with regular lives.

They would have met just like in the movies - in a café, at work, at a club, in the street, by a random twist of fate. His smile would have been blinding, and she would have happily answered with a resounding yes when he would have asked her for a date.

(In her dreams, she can talk. 

She’s an average woman with a job, an apartment, a cat, a family, and a normal social life. She doesn’t hide in basements and rips people’s faces off for a living).

They would have gone to a restaurant, or to the movies. He would have casually slid his arm around her shoulders and she would have snuggled deeper into his embrace while inviting him over for one last drink.

She would have introduced him to her family over dinner, to her parents, her brother - who would have teased her for bringing a boyfriend and given him “the talk” jokingly. 

They would have bought an old house that they would have remodelled entirely, and taken pleasure in decorating it for every holiday, having friends and family over for joyous gatherings.

In these dreams, she wouldn’t have been plagued by violence and rage and frequent panic attacks. She would have been able to speak and to tell him exactly, precisely, how much he meant to her.

How much she loved him.

But then, she wakes up from those dreams, in his arms - in their imperfect yet happy new normal, with their relationship history forged in blood, kindness and understanding - and thinks she wouldn’t trade it for the world.

______________

What she calls “freezing”, he calls PTSD. He says her encounters with Stormfront left their mark on her psyche like a red-hot iron, amplifying all the traumatic events of her past. Her brain is now responding in two different ways: some triggers make her completely freeze up for several minutes, heart beating erratically and incapable of moving. Others send her into episodes of white-hot rage where she could destroy the house.

They find this out the hard way. It takes days to set the kitchen right again.

Mostly, she fears for him. With her strength and power, combined with her violent episodes, she could actually rip his head off.

He’s so fragile. Soft, sinewy skin littered with scars and calluses - so easily maimed or torn off.

This person that she loves so much, and that she could actually severely harm when she’s not in control.

After the second time her rage sends the house flying, she actively considers leaving - knowing he’d be heartbroken, but safe and whole. Maybe fleeing in the middle of the night so she wouldn’t have to see his reaction.

He finds her under the living room table, face hidden against her knees, huddling in a way that is so similar to the first time they met.

“Mon cœur, please, it’s not your fault. Let me help you.”

Her tear-stricken face looks up and he can feel every ounce of pain currently inhabiting her.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she signs, hands shaking a little. “I would rather leave before I hurt you for good.”

He kneels in front of her and holds both his palms in front of her. She hesitates, and then places her hands in his. He squeezes them.

“Take a deep breath for me, okay? You are not leaving me, and I am not leaving you. We made a deal, remember? For good and for bad, I am here. Always.” 

Her eyes close, and she can feel more tears spilling over. A gentle touch wipes them away.

“We will get through this together, just like we’ve done every single time.”

“Until one day you get hurt, because of me,” she answers, signing forcefully. “I’m a monster, you said so yourself.”

His face darkens.

“Don’t ever think that, Kimiko. You know I didn’t mean it - I was angry, and I wanted to make you suffer as much as me. This is not how I see you.”

He clears his throat and continues his desperate plea.

“How do you think I would feel if you left? It would cause me more pain; I know you know it.”

“But you would be safe from me.”

“I would worry about you, all the time. No, there are ways to deal with PTSD. We will get you help, and find ways to calm you down, I promise. You and me, _ensemble_.”

Entwining their fingers, he tenderly kisses the top of her hand and holds it close.

“You’re not a monster, mon cœur, you’re a fucking miracle and the best damn thing to ever happen to me. Never believe otherwise.”

______________

She becomes so interested in learning how to dance, that she takes to watching tutorial videos on his battered laptop whenever he's gone from the house.

Ideally, she wants to train in ballroom dancing without his knowledge and surprise him one night with dinner and a mind-blowing choreography, waltzing expertly in his arms all night long.

(And some more.)

She prefers to take her lessons in the cosy and welcoming kitchen, on her own, enjoying the wooden floors that are ideal for sliding.

" _Keep your core engaged at all times for better balance and to feel your partner’s weight. Keep your hand clasped with your partner's at eye level and maintain eye contact whenever possible. Now to begin with the box step_ -"

The entrance door loudly opening startles her. As quickly as possible, she pauses the dancing video, and minimises the browser window, feeling like a child being caught. The cat from the laptop's wallpaper gives her a blank stare.

"I'm back! I got more of this horrible thing Americans dare call bread, it's a blasphemy but I will toast it to make it palatable. You know I would kill for a real baguette from a _boulangerie_ , crunchy and warm from the oven. Maybe we can make our own," Frenchie says as he makes his way into the kitchen, arms laden with shopping bags.

He deposits them on the counter, next to the laptop, and turns to her.

"I got you a new notebook for your practice spelling, since I noticed the other one is nearly full. Soon you will write better than me! Then again it is not very difficult. What are you up to? Watching more movies?"

“Just watching videos,” she signs, hoping he won’t press on the matter.

Of course, that’s the moment the video decides to play again on its own.

“ _The key to ballroom dancing and to become a better dancer is the trust and communication with your partner. You have to know that you are both moving in the same direction_ ,” drones on the middle-aged woman teaching the lesson through the computer’s speakers.

Frenchie’s eyes grow wide open and he chuckles as he removes his jacket, setting it on the chair. She’s mortified. 

“You should have said you wanted to learn dancing, mon cœur! I’m not the best but I know a couple things. We can learn together!”

“I wanted -” she pauses mid-signing, looking for words “- to surprise you. With dancing.”

His gaze is so tender, she feels like melting on the spot. 

“ _Tu es tellement mignonne_ ,” he says, slowly caressing her cheek with his thumb. “Come on, let’s try together first.”

He grabs the laptop and types in a few words on YouTube. An old French song starts playing, and he holds out his hand to her (always, forever).

They settle their arms around one another, slowly moving around the kitchen island. She decides to lay her head on his chest, feeling safe and loved, reveling in their effortless intimacy.

_♪_ _Un jardin sur la Terre, un petit coin perdu_

_Juste un trompe-misère, un abri rien de plus_

_Un jardin sur la Terre pour qu'une fille ait son cœur_

_Et prendre à l'éphémère ce qu'il a de meilleur_ _♪_

“This is a song called “Un Jardin sur la Terre”. It’s about making a small corner of the world yours, your Eden on earth. He was my _maman’s_ favourite singer - his name is Serge Lama. She made me learn all his songs, we would sing them together. She named me after him. She didn’t care that it was an old-fashioned name, she loved it too much.”

She breaks away for a second to sign “I like your name. It suits you.” before joining him again in the movement.

He twirls her on the spot, sliding her across the wooden floor, away from him, and then back in his arms once more.

She laughs. It’s his favourite sound in the world.

“See! I can dance too, and so can you. Just feel your body moving.”

_♪ De_ _la graine au bourgeon et de la fleur au fruit_

_Un jardin sur la Terre, un Eden avant l'heure_

_Donnez-moi un jardin sur la Terre._ _♪_

The song ends, and she can feel him dipping her body close to the ground. She’s not afraid - she trusts that he won’t let her fall down.

The dancing instructor was right after all.

But Frenchie was right too - it’s a lot more fun together.

Another song starts playing, and she can see the corners of his mouth rising with recognition as he brings her back to him.

“This one is not really good for dancing, but it’s the most beautiful love song ever written, according to my _maman_. It’s about a man who feels so sick because the one he loves left him. It’s very emotional,” he tells her softly, keeping her in his embrace.

She slides her arms from his back to his neck, keeping her eyes on his.

He whispers the lyrics to her, singing along with his namesake under his breath.

_♪ Je_ _suis malade, parfaitement malade_

_Tu m'as privé de tous mes chants_

_Tu m'as vidé de tous mes mots_

_Pourtant moi, j'avais du talent avant ta peau_ _♪_

She makes a mental note to look up the translation later on. 

For now, she closes her eyes and keeps on swaying with him.

______________

More than just dancing, the music seems to soothe Kimiko’s fits of unbridled rage.

They’ve experimented several things by this point, mostly him coming up with different ways to gently snap her out of it, often physically.

After another close call, she forbids him from getting near her when she’s losing control, so deeply afraid of hurting him. So they try ways to provide her comfort and bring her back without him in the same room.

Classical music especially, so far removed from the horrors of her past, seems to only evoke good memories for her - Serge, dancing, their little cocoon shielded from the outside world deep in the woods, the delicious smells of cooking together. It definitely helps her returns to a calmer state.

He becomes deeply aware of things that could trigger such panic or violence into her - the word mouse, a vision of her brother, the storm outside, loud unexpected noises - and does everything in his power to prevent them from happening in the first place.

Maybe he gets a tiny bit too overprotective on some occasions - but she goes along with it because it just means he cares so much. 

He makes a point of always counterbalancing the rage with kindness, love, and acceptance. After everything she’s been through, she deserves nothing less.

As another precaution, he’s decided to go stone cold sober, so he too can always remain focused and in control, should she need his help during an episode. He hasn’t been this clear-headed in years. Some days, when the urges get too strong, he takes a walk around the lake with Kimiko and counts all the animals he sees.

They try yoga together too.

(Frenchie’s attempt at the downward dog position makes her laugh so hard she cries. He considers the experience not entirely a failure).

They incorporate music into their life as much as they can.

He buys a record player and sets it in the kitchen, along with a good collection of vinyls, mostly American and French classics. The French rap stays playing on his computer occasionally.

As a thank you, she starts leaving little origami animals in the pockets of his jacket, for him to find later on.

They practice dancing together whenever they can, spinning, twirling, whirling, and rocking back and forth, in the safety of their own _jardin sur terre_.

Despite the ups and downs, she hasn’t felt this happy in decades.

______________

She's biting her bottom lip. Again.

_Par tous les Dieux._

She does it unconsciously, when she’s focusing hard on something - whether it’s cooking, practicing writing, or teaching him signing.

It's driving him crazy.

Then she looks up at him with the brightest smile and he feels like he’s drowning.

She must not be aware of what she’s doing to him - the reactions it’s eliciting inside and that he’s trying so hard to contain.

She looks so innocent, so inviting, it’s sending all his senses haywire.

He wants to nibble on her lips too, aches to kiss them slowly while pulling her closer and closer.

He dreams of slowly undressing her - akin to going on an adventure, discovering every inch of this marvellous body that’s saved his life countless times, so small yet so strong.

He fantasizes of revering her the way she deserves - kissing every spot, caressing every bit of flesh, figuring out where her most sensitive areas lay and teasing her until she can’t take it anymore.

Waking up in her arms every morning is a sweet torture that worsens each day.

Images flash every so often in his mind - of their bed, satin sheets gliding, tiny drops of sweat cascading down endless amounts of soft skin, tangled bodies dancing a different kind of choreography.

He wants all of that and more. 

And yet.

He made a mistake once - awkwardly tried to offer her ill-timed comfort in a moment of intense grief the only way he knew how. And got deservedly punched for it. She was absolutely right to reject him, and he feels like he hasn’t apologised enough.

Kimiko deserves so much better than an embarrassing attempt at a kiss during the worst possible moment. 

His baseline with her has always been to offer her choices, to let her make her own decisions for once in her life - whether to leave after they had her restrained, or to go to the airport to look for her brother, or even to leave her alone.

The choice is up to her once again: if she wants to seek something closer with him, then he’ll let her come to him this time. He won't press her.

And if things stay the way they are, then having her in his life will be enough. 

He’ll continue respectfully gazing from afar. 

______________

“Hey, _non_ , remember what I said about folding and not stirring for the madeleines? It’s the same here with the _blancs en neige_. We don’t want to ruin the batter.”

They also make time for some individual hobbies apart from one another: she gets progressively into cooking, while he spends hours in the cabin’s garage taking apart various tools and machines. Despite not having weapons on hand, he doesn’t want to lose his touch.

The _mousse au chocolat_ from one of his French cookbooks looked mouth-watering and deceptively easy; but now she’s thinking she definitely needed a translation before donning the apron.

Without warning, he gets up close behind her and puts his arms around hers, guiding her movements. His hands get on top of hers as they grab both the bowl and the spatula.

He showed her the technique once - she definitely doesn’t need the guided version of his instructions.

She’s not complaining, however.

“Look, the egg whites need a gentle touch, they’re fussy bastards. Otherwise they break and you have to start all over again.”

Her breath catches as her senses get flooded by his smell, his warmth, the feel of his arms on her bare skin, the sound of his accelerating heartbeat.

His words - whispered in the hollow of her neck - send shivers down her spine.

She shouldn’t be this affected. At night, they get as close as they humanly can. But this feels different - more intimate, more intense.

If she’d just turn her head a quarter on the left, she’d be able to kiss him the way she’s been longing to for a while now.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she surreptitiously backs further into his chest and continues folding the egg whites, seemingly oblivious.

______________

If only they’d notice how they look at each other when the other one isn’t looking.

______________

_She lays down on the floor, head snapped, awkwardly twisted away from the front of her body, unmoving._

_She’s not breathing._

_Stormfront flies away unharmed with a manic giggle._

_He stays there, motionless, too shell-shocked to be able to do anything, hoping, waiting for a miracle._

_Except this time, Kimiko doesn’t rise up._

Frenchie wakes up with a jolt, heart beating erratically, body fully tensed and bracing for a fight that never comes.

A sigh of relief escapes his lips as he becomes aware of her presence by his side, turned away from him, chest rising in slumber.

The clock indicates 2:37am. Without a sound, he heads to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water, in the hopes of forgetting what he just saw.

She’s awake when he comes back to bed.

“I’m sorry I woke you up, mon cœur.”

“Are you okay?” she signs, looking worried.

“Just a nightmare, I’ll be fine. It might take me a while to get back to sleep though - sorry in advance.”

She sits up on the bed and pats the space next to her.

“Take off your shirt and lay down on your stomach - I’ll help.”

He raises an eyebrow questioningly but complies, too tired to consider exactly what it will entail.

Two small hands start lightly massaging his shoulders. He hastily turns his head towards her, suddenly alarmed.

“Don’t feel like you have to do anything, Kimiko, please.”

“I want to. You need to relax. Let me help. Now close your eyes,” she signs, and then sits down on the very end of his back, her hands rubbing a little lower down his shoulder blades.

He bites back a moan and shoves his face in the mattress. 

She’s going to be the death of him.

With dexterity, she moves across his back to undo the knots by applying pressure in different areas, kneading his skin like dough.

He wants to relax, but her close proximity leaves him on the edge, his mind impossibly clouded.

It would just take a second for him to twist his body, reach for her waist, dive for her lips…

He sighs and tries to focus on the feeling of her hands instead.

Her massaging has paused; now she’s lightly tracing the various scars that adorn his back.

She lingers on the one on his left shoulder blade, where the bullet went through when he tried to rescue her from Vought. He came for her that night, just like always.

She lightly taps his shoulder to tell him she has something to say. 

“I never said thank you for that,” she signs once he’s turned his head to look at her.

“You don’t have to. I will always come for you, Kimiko, _je te le promets_.”

“How come you have so many scars?”

“It comes with the job, I guess. Even though some date back from childhood, courtesy of _mon cher papa_.”

He thinks, _to hell with it_ , and flips on his back, turning on the mattress. With a giggle, she keeps her composure and remains sat astride his waist, inching dangerously low. Her hands reach for his upper body, tenderly smoothing them across his chest.

Emboldened by her reaction, he positions his hands delicately on each side of her hips, stroking the warm skin beneath his shirt that she’s taken to wear at night.

“But you have none, mon cœur. Your skin is flawless - no bruise or scar or blemish, I’ve noticed.”

Her cheeks flush at the thought of him paying particular attention to her body. 

With a sigh, she answers “Thanks to my powers. The healing takes care of it all. I should have as many scars as you do.”

“Miracle,” he murmurs as his right hand moves lazily towards the center of her lower back. The skin is so thin there, it sends tingles down her spine.

“Are you ticklish, perhaps?” he grins madly, an idea forming in his head.

She nods, still trying to recover from the storm of sensations brewing inside.

Without warning, he launches a tickle attack on her hips that sends her into uncontrollable laughter. Half-heartedly, she tries to bat his hands away as he gains the upper hand and surges on top of her.

His touch is heady, his proximity fully intoxicating. She can’t get enough of it.

Determined to have the last laugh, she manages to roll them back, now fully pressed on top of him, faces only a few inches apart. 

She can feel his chest rising quickly in sync with hers, both of them panting due to their little fight.

They can’t take their eyes off one another.

With one hand, he slowly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, clearing his view of her smooth features.

“I love hearing you laugh, mon cœur. I want to hear it every day,” he whispers, his gaze lowering to her mouth.

She’s so overwhelmed by the love she feels for this man, she can’t help but close the gap between them and tentatively meet his lips.

Time stops. 

Her touch is so gentle, so delicate, he’s almost sure he’s dreaming.

Only a couple of blissful seconds later, she backs away nervously, seeking his expression to make sure he’s okay with it. 

As a response, he pulls her in closer, engulfing her small frame into his arms to kiss her passionately, this time without hesitation. Her arms knot around his neck as his circle her waist, one hand languidly climbing along her spine under the fabric of the shirt.

Lips still locked together, she delights in running her fingers in his hair, longer now that he’s stopped getting it buzzed.

Her nails scratch his neck lightly and he moans into her mouth, parting his lips and making her shudder.

She aches for more.

Slowly untangling from his grasp, she rises to catch her breath, taking the moment to squeeze his waist with her thighs a little. He groans in return.

Hair tousled, thoroughly kissed and out of breath, he looks utterly dishevelled among the sheets of their bed. She allows herself a little prideful smile.

“We can stop right there if you don’t want to go further,” he says with concern.

So selfless, she thinks.

She peels off her shirt in a flash in reply, smirking.

He gasps.

“ _Tu vas finir par me tuer, mon cœur_.”

She knows enough French now to understand his desperate words.

With a laugh, she melts into his embrace once more. 

______________

The midday sunlight bathes their bedroom in a warm and yellowy glow. She awakens with a smile, content to watch Frenchie’s soft breathing next to her, still lost to sleep.

Last night wasn’t a dream. Now she’s free to kiss him if she wants to, to hold his hand and tell the whole world that he’s hers, too.

She's free to make love to him.

Free to tell him she loves him.

Quietly, delicately, she traces kanji on the expanse of his back.

愛してる

_I love you deeply._

Soon, she’ll tell him.

One last soft kiss pressed to his shoulder and she closes her eyes again, curling up against him.

______________

“ _Bonjour, mon amour_ ,” whispers a sleepy voice next to her a couple of hours later.

She doesn't want to be woken up any other way for the rest of her life.

______________

Kimiko wants to commit to memory every moment together.

Her life used to be so bleak and devoid of happiness - until she met him, and they both changed each other’s course of existence.

Now she gets to experience happiness and feeling so immensely loved - from small gestures to big, relation-defining events. With him, every day is a wonder, a new adventure to be lived side by side.

She wants to remember it all.

The dozens of bottles of nail polish she has accumulated thanks to him.

That time they get caught in the rain during a hike, far enough away from the cabin that they come back soaked to the bone, laughing and playfully shoving one another. 

(And the steamy shower together that follows.)

A long conversation about each other’s families that lasts until the early hours of the morning, and the many tears that were shed that night.

The numerous cooking lessons.

The purple bruises she leaves on his skin - remnants of passionate moments stolen in time - and her flustered apologies that he shrugs off with a wink.

_“I like having your marks on me, mon cœur.”_

How The Boys came to be - the epic recounting of how he met Butcher, and MM, and Hughie much later on. And then herself.

_“You’re a Spice Girl too, I told Mr Charcutier from the start, I was right, I knew it!”_

And his explanation of that tragic night that ended in two innocent children burnt, thus resulting in lifelong crippling guiltiness that he will never let go of.

(She hugs him tighter that evening.)

His passionate speeches about French food - the magnificence of pairing a real baguette, some true French cheese, a good bottle of red wine and proper charcuterie.

_“Once we’re a little less recognizable and a little more free, I promise I will take you to my country and introduce you to the best food you will ever taste. Parole de Français !”_

(He also promises to take her to Broadway someday.)

The joy he feels in picking up chemistry books - not with the intention of making bombs or impending doom in mind, but just for _fun_ \- and those afternoons trying to simplify some of the main teachings to her.

The interest he shows in learning some basics of Japanese from her.

_“You’re understanding French more and more, my little polyglot - it’s only fair I learn Japanese for you too. And I want to help you reconnect with your roots - if that’s something you want.”_

Every word, every gesture, every feeling: she wants to get it all engraved in her memory and never forget a single second.

______________

It’s movie night and they’re snuggled on the sofa under a cosy plaid, watching yet another musical comedy.

Lightly tapping twice on his arm, she gets his attention away from the movie and onto her, and makes a single sign.

 _Comfortable_.

(Two arms crossed, giving yourself a hug.)

“What? You want more pillows?” he asks, befuddled.

She shakes her head, grinning.

“No, I’m comfortable with you. You make me feel comfortable all the time. I haven’t felt like that in a very long time,’ she answers, signing quickly. “I just wanted you to know.’

The fact that he now understands the majority of the subtlety in her signing is a testament to how hard he’s been working to communicate with her.

Her reply leaves him stunned, blinking slowly while trying to fully comprehend what she's saying.

After a couple seconds of confusion, he pulls her closer and shuts his eyes, giving in to the wave of tenderness overtaking his entire body.

“I’m so glad, mon amour. So glad.”

Maybe they still feel scared of explicitly proclaiming “I love you” so early into this new stage of their relationship. 

Maybe they find different ways of saying it.

______________

“You and I are twin flames,” she writes on a piece of paper, about two months after their arrival in the mountains.

When she first reads the concept in a self-help book, in the chapter focusing on relationships – a book that he bought out of desperation when they felt helpless with her violent episodes - she knows she’s found the definition of what they are to each other.

Everything rings true.

_Twin flames are life-altering relationships - burning intensely together, feeding off from one another, forever linked by a deep bond on a spiritual and physical level._

She leaves the note on his pillow.

______________

She hopes to regain her voice someday. 

To be able to speak, and sing, and express herself using all the words she can think of.

To talk in Japanese again and feel the connection to her family that she deeply misses through her mother tongue.

(Hell, to try to vocalize some French too).

She wants to whisper love lyrics to him in the middle of the night, tangled together beneath the sheets.

And say those three words.

But she’s ready if it never happens. She’s made peace with it.

She has a whole language to communicate with - one she fully created with her brother, one the love of her life learnt with fervour in what’s probably the deepest show of affection she’s ever experienced.

In doing that for her, he finally freed her from the last obstacle that kept her closed off from her environment and the people around - speech. Through him, she can now convey her thoughts, her opinions, engage in debate and ask things. Feel like she belongs.

Being able to talk with him is what’s most important - it doesn’t matter how they do it.

______________

“We’ll get a tree, and we’ll decorate it with lots of baubles and garlands, and put lights and candles everywhere, and I will cook cinnamon pastries so they smell all over the house - I’m so excited, mon cœur, it’s gonna be great!”

He’s been talking so much about Christmas lately that the excitement has gotten to her as well. It’s the beginning of December, and for the first time in many years they will both get to celebrate the end of the year. 

Together.

It’ll be a first for her, too. The only knowledge she has of Christmas comes from movies. 

She knows she has to get him a gift. Which will probably have to involve shopping alone, and without his knowledge.

The thought sends her anxiety levels rising. But for him, she would do anything.

(Including fighting off crazy Christmas shoppers.)

She takes a deep breath, looks at him, and feels calmer. Tea mug in hand, she’s watching as Frenchie works several logs of wood into the fireplace, illuminating the dark room in the early evening.

A knock at the door startles them. 

They’re not expecting anyone, and know no one around.

The reaction is immediate. She gets into a fighting stance, crouching down, while he grabs a wooden bat they always keep nearby and gets closer to the door, ready to act if necessary.

The knocking continues.

“Oi, can you open up, it’s fucking freezing out there!”

 _Butcher_.

Frenchie still looks through the door hatch before opening the door as she grabs her tea mug again, releasing the tension in her body.

“ _Mon ami_! Come in, come in, what are you doing here?”

Ever so affectionate, Frenchie grabs Butcher in a big hug, as he responds by awkwardly patting his back.

“Good to see you too, mate.”

He looks towards Kimiko, acknowledging her presence.

“Hello there.”

She nods at him, then throws a pointed look at Frenchie.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you, but how come you’re here in person? Couldn’t you have phoned?”

“Well, you gave me this address and said to only use it in an emergency. And well, … it’s bad.”

Wordlessly, Kimiko indicates that he can set his coat on one of the dinner room’s chairs and invites him on the couch.

She settles into Frenchie’s side, feet curled up under her. Her partner seems on edge.

“What do you mean, bad?”

She focuses on the flecks of snow dotting the top of Butcher’s head, starkly white against his dark hair. Soon they’ll be melting.

‘It’s Hughie. He needs our help.”

Frenchie and Kimiko exchange a look. She signs “of course” to him.

“Petit Hughie? Of course, anything for him. What’s going on?”

“You know the congresswoman he’s working for, Neuman? The one we met with Mallory?”

“Yes?”

“Turns out, she’s the cunt who’s been blowing people’s heads. Shocker, I know. Deserves an Oscar for her scared little performance that day in court, really.”

Well. They certainly didn’t see that one coming. 

“Does Hughie know?” she asks, Frenchie translating for her.

“I don’t think so. He believes the sun shines out of her arse and she’s the greatest boss alive, from what I gathered. It’s gonna be a pain to convince him, especially since I don’t have proof yet.”

Clearing his throat, Butcher sets his sharp gaze on the two of them.

“That’s why I need your help, both of you. We need to get proof, and to get him out of there before she blows him up too and he ends up like his previous girlfriend. Splattered all over the street.”

She winces. Next to her, Frenchie discreetly winds his pinkie finger around hers.

“And we need to act fast. My intel says she’s become increasingly too suspicious these days, and prone to a lot more anger - and a lot more exploding. We ain’t got time to waste for the kid’s sake.”

She signs quickly to Frenchie about her plans for the evening. Nodding, he sets to translate for Butcher.

“Kimiko says that it’s really late, and we’re several hours away from New York. Let’s rest and we’ll set out first thing tomorrow. For now, we’re gonna have dinner and prepare the couch for you - it might be the last time we have some peace before long.”

“Err… thanks. Let’s do that.”

______________

That night, they lay in bed side by side, facing each other.

“We’re gonna be quick and efficient - without bloodshed - so that we can be back here in time for Christmas. And maybe we can bring everyone else here too, Butcher, and MM and his family, and Hughie and even his electric girlfriend - and we have a huge Christmas celebration all together! With snow fights in the backyard and skating on the lake! It’s not all lost,” he says, softly caressing her cheek.

“You’re always the optimist, my love,” she signs, and then drops a kiss on his palm.

They fall asleep holding onto each other.

______________

They spend December 25th covered in blood and gore, running for their lives in the dark alleyways of New York, barely alive but still together.

At least they’ll always have the cabin in the woods.

**Author's Note:**

> French-English :
> 
> Bon courage : Good luck  
> Jouer au chat et à la souris : A game of cat and mouse  
> Mais : But  
> Galipettes : Somersaults/tumble (literal) / euphemism for sex  
> Oui : Yes  
> Tout ce que je fais, c’est pour toi : Everything I do is for you  
> Bonne nuit : Good night  
> Ecureuil : Squirrel  
> C’est de bonne guerre : It’s a fair game  
> Mijotés avec amour : Simmered/cooked with love  
> Voilà : There! (interjection)  
> Maman : Mommy  
> Goûter : Mid-afternoon snack  
> Danse avec moi : Dance with me  
> Ensemble : Together  
> Boulangerie : Bakery  
> Tu es tellement mignonne : You are so cute  
> Par tous les Dieux : By all the Gods  
> Non : No  
> Blancs en neige : Whisked egg whites  
> Je te le promets : I promise you  
> Mon cher papa : My dear daddy  
> Tu vas finir par me tuer : You’re gonna end up killing me  
> Bonjour, mon amour : Hello, my love  
> Parole de Français : Frenchman’s honour  
> Mon ami : My friend
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
